


i've slept so long

by ToAStranger



Series: you were on fire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Dark, Future Fic, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:19:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something dangerous out in the dark.  Beacon Hills doesn't know what's coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Something wicked this way comes.

“Stiles,” Peter breathes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Um,” Stiles blinks, mouth curving into a frown. “Overcome a great deal of jet lag in order to attend this ridiculously late night meeting?”

“It’s midnight,” Isaac protests from behind Derek, hovering by the war table in front of the vast windows where rain is pattering against the glass.

“For _you_ ,” Stiles snorts. “It’s three a.m. for me.”

Peter’s eyes shut, jaw going tight, and Stiles can see the annoyance on his features. “Can you please focus?”

“On what?” Stiles takes a slow step back, pendant slipping from Peter’s fingers to rest heavy around his neck. “On how close you are? Because trust me, I noticed.”

Peter’s teeth grit and bare, white and sharp even in the dim light of Derek’s loft. “On who you’ve _bedded_.”

“Wow, that is not _anyone’s_ business,” Stiles frowns, brows drawing tight.

“It is when we can smell him all over you,” Erica says, but she’s smiling.

“It is when we can smell an _alpha_ all over you,” Derek corrects, nostrils flaring as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles shoulders past Peter and pads deeper into the room, shedding his jacket and laying it over the back of Derek’s couch. “An alpha that is all the way in New York, Derek. And of no threat to you or anyone else here.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Derek protests.

“Nope,” Stiles shakes his head. “Pretty sure that I can. Pretty sure I’m also about to change the subject and we aren’t going to keep talking about my spectacular sex life.”

“Except for with me,” Erica raises a hand as she sits down on the arm of the chair Boyd is perched in. “Because I am getting details later.”

“Except for Erica,” Stiles nods.

Peter is, surprisingly or perhaps unsurprisingly, the one that protests. “Who is the alpha?” Peter asks.

Stiles sighs, head tipping back. “Where’s Scott?”

Smile sharp, Peter gives Stiles a dark look. “Why are you avoiding the question?”

“Why do you care so much?”

Peter’s lips thin. “Do you have any idea what it is that you have around your neck?”

“A gift and a historical relic from my hot professor boyfriend?”

The door clatters open. Focus falls that way as Scott comes padding in, clothes wet and muddy. Allison is right behind him, equally as soaked as she trails after him.

“You have a hot professor boyfriend?” Scott asks, smile dopey and lopsided. “Is he cuter than me?”

“Aw, babe.” Stiles grins, already walking towards him. “Nobody is cuter than you.”

Laughing, they embrace. Though Stiles’ nose wrinkles a moment later and they break apart when Stiles makes a show of swatting him away.

“Been wading in a swamp?” Stiles asks.

“Well, we aren’t meeting at midnight for no reason.” Scott says on a faint sigh.

Stiles turns his focus on the rest of the room. “Good point. Anyone care to elaborate why we’re meeting exactly?”

“Well,” Isaac sighs, shrugging a shoulder. “I guess a good place to start might be the increased paranormal activity.”

Stiles nods. “That might be good, yeah.”

* * *

They come up with a plan. It takes an hour to hammer out the details, but by the end of everything they have a plan that should ensure the safety of Beacon Hills’ streets. They decide to wait until morning to take any action.

It is only when they have all left Derek’s loft that Peter corners Derek in the kitchen. He watches Derek make himself a cup of coffee before speaking.

“We have a problem,” Peter says.

“Are you talking about yourself or whatever it is that is intent on killing off innocent people in Beacon Hills?” Derek asks drolly.

Peter’s jaw flexes. “I’m talking about Stiles.”

The line of Derek’s shoulders goes rigid. Peter doesn’t hide his smile, eyes flitting over Derek before meeting the glower Derek shoots his way.

“What about him?” Derek asks.

“The alpha he’s seeing,” Peter says, leaning against the counter and reaching over to swipe Derek’s coffee before taking a slow drink. “It might end up posing us more of a problem than Stiles is aware of.”

Derek frowns. “What kind of problem?”

“Let’s just say, it’ll make living on a supernatural nexus look like a dream,” Peter replies and his grin is more than a little cold.

Outside, a storm rages on.


	2. hell in your eyes

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

Stiles’ yell is loud even over the roar of rain and wind whipping through the Preserve. He struggles, legs kicking, and is sucked deeper into the well of muck that he has slipped into. He thinks he feels one of his shoes come off. Reaching out, he claws at the earth and grunts as he tries to pull himself out—already waist deep, already sinking in more. His hair is matted to his head and there is grit under his nails, wet and just getting wetter.

It is Boyd that comes sliding to his rescue. He’s bleeding from a gash that draws from the edge of his right brow all the way to a spot above his ear. Extending a hand down to Stiles, Boyd’s jaw goes tight, and he clutches to a root curving out of the hillside as Stiles’ slaps his hand around Boyd’s wrist. They grip tight, and Boyd pulls.

The haul isn’t easy. At one point, Stiles lets out a hoarse sound, feeling like he’s being pulled in two before the mud around him gives and Boyd tugs him free. When Stiles is finally and completely loose, they both go lax against the hillside, breathless and panting.

The rain is still pouring down, and Stiles tips his head back as he lets out a strained laugh, water washing over his face and clearing it of some of the grime. The entirety of his lower half is covered in mud and muck, clothes matted, and Stiles wiggles the toes of the foot that is missing both its shoe and its sock.

Boyd props himself up onto his elbows, brow lifting as he glances Stiles’ way. “You okay?”

“Been better,” Stiles confesses. “Now I remember why it is that I avoid coming home. You guys always get me into trouble.”

Boyd huffs out a soft laugh. “True enough,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder to see Erica and Scott jogging over.

“Are you two laying down on the job?” Erica asks, though her brows are pinched.

Boyd swats at Stiles’ chest. “Come on. I think break time is over.”

“Can’t leave the Big Bad waiting,” Stiles huffs, already pushing to his feet.

Scott frowns when Stiles ambles over the hill. “What happened to your shoe?”

* * *

 _Is home just as you remember it_?

Stiles smiles. _Something like that_.

Across the table, his dad snorts. “Are you ever gonna bring this guy home? Or are you just going to smile at your own lap for the foreseeable future?”

Glancing up, Stiles’ shrugs a shoulder, focus falling half-heartedly on the breakfast in front of them. “Depends on how serious it gets.”

“You’ve been seeing him for, what, the last six months?” The Sheriff lifts a brow, pausing to pull from his coffee. “That’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had. You don’t want to bring this guy home to meet your dad?”

“Technically I’ve known him for the last year and a half,” Stiles corrects. “But I see where you’re going with this. And the answer is no.”

“No, you _do_ want him to meet me?” The Sheriff asks. “Or no, you’re a big chicken and don’t want to ask him to come meet your cop father?”

Stiles snorts. “Cute.”

“I get it from you,” his dad grins, tight lipped but playful.

Stiles’ phone buzzes against his thigh. He glances down, spots the text, and pushes away from the table.

“I’m gonna make a call,” Stiles says, tossing his napkin down onto the table as he stands.

His dad holds out his hands. “What happened to father-son bonding?”

“I’m here through New Year, pops. There will be _plenty_ of father-son bonding. Finish your eggs.”

The Sheriff waves him off.

Upstairs, Stiles presses his phone to his ear. It rings once, and Luke answers, voice like a balm as Stiles goes easy against the wood of his door.

“ _Hello, love_.”

“Hi,” Stiles breathes, pressing the lock on his door and pushing away, padding across the room to flop onto his bed.

“ _How is everything_?”

“A little bit like heaven, a little bit—“

* * *

“—like hell.” Stiles grunts.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

Scott grips Stiles by the elbow, taking some of his weight as they press forward. Ahead of them, Boyd and Erica have stopped. Scott’s brow furrows. As they get closer, he sees the reason why.

The path is blocked with a tangle of branches, all thorned. Erica reaches out, tentative, and touches one. She jerks back with a hiss, hand smoking as blood pools in her palm. Jaw going tight, Boyd takes her wrist and looks it over carefully. He tears away a piece of his sleeve, pulling it into strips. Lightning flashes beyond them, the sharp vines seeming to coil so tight that no light escapes them. The following thunder leaves the ground quaking beneath their feet.

“Brambles?” Stiles gawks. “We have _brambles_?”

“Wolfsbane,” Boyd tells them.

“There’s gotta be a way around,” Scott mutters.

“I sincerely doubt that,” Erica tells him with a little sneer, lip curling up as Boyd wraps the cloth around her hand gingerly.

“These aren’t normal,” Boyd adds.

“Thanks, dude.” Stiles huffs. “Hadn’t noticed. What with the wolfsbane and all.”

Boyd gives him a dry look.

“We have to get to the Nemeton,” Scott says.

“We know,” Erica mumbles, fingers curling delicately as Boyd finishes synching off the makeshift bandage.

Stiles pulls out of Scott’s grip, padding forward with uneven strides. He stops before the mass and reaches out. Scott calls to him, but Stiles curls his fingers around one of the thin vines and it crumbles in his palm. Turning about, he opens his hand, and the ash starts to wash away as the rain hits it.

A slow smile curves over Stiles’ mouth. “Looks like they aren’t expecting human guests.”

Scott frowns, taking Stiles’ hand in his own and rubbing away the ash with his thumb. It does not hurt him.

“So what do we do?” Erica asks. “Just let Stiles walk face first through there?”

“No,” Scott shakes his head.

Stiles grins. “Doesn’t Allison have a machete with her?”

* * *

“ _You never told me that you have a friend who’s a hunter_ ,” Luke says.

Stiles’ lips twist into a tight grimace. “I know.”

“ _Is that why you don’t want me to visit_?” he asks.

“I never said that,” Stiles sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“ _But it’s true, isn’t it? You don’t want me there, do you, love?_ ”

Lips thinning, Stiles stares up at his ceiling for a long, quiet moment. Luke lets the silence hang until Stiles is ready to fill it.

His hand goes to the pendant still hanging around his neck. His fingers trace over the intricate knots engraved into the metal. Biting the inside of his cheek, his index finger pauses over the emerald at the center, feel the smooth coldness of the stone like an anchor. He closes his eyes, chest thrumming with a keen kind of longing.

He smiles to himself. “You have no idea how badly I want you here.”

It gives Luke pause. “ _I miss you too, Stiles._ ”

Stiles’ head lulls. He stares out his window, frowning at the grey weight that has settled over town. He sighs, fingers curling loosely around the medallion.

“I should probably go,” Stiles mutters, not moving from his spot sprawled over his bed.

“ _Have some monsters to slay_?” he asks.

“More like catch and release,” Stiles grumbles.

Luke hums. “ _Try not to start too many fights, Stiles_.”

“No promises.”

“ _I’ll see you soon_ ,” he says. ” _Stay safe.”_

Stiles smiles, wry and crooked. “Puh- _leez_. Nothing can touch me, babe.”

* * *

He hits the side of the Nemeton rolling, shirt singed from the wash of fire that glanced his left ribcage. Spitting out a curse, Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear the spots from the edges of his vision.

Across from him, Isaac is on the ground shaking. He’s at the edge of the tangle of vines, trying to push himself back up. Stiles can barely make him out in the dark, only really seeing him when lightning flashes and when the eerie flame that the Ježibaba has conjured.

Stiles coughs, shoving to his feet. “Her head,” he calls. “Go for her head.”

Allison is already aiming her crossbow.

“Wound, don’t kill!” Scott yells.

Stiles rolls his eyes, teeth gritting tight. He grabs a thick branch from the brush—broken off from one of the nearby trees in the storm—just as Allison is lowering her crossbow. He cracks it over the back of the Ježibaba’s head, bark shattering across the back of her skull and tangling in the mess of her silver hair.

She hisses and twists. A gnarled, clawed hand darts up, her hunched body straightening in the mess of wet layers making her appear much larger than she is, but the strength of her grip as she takes Stiles by the throat is daunting. Stiles grunts, jaw flexing, and his eyes go wide as she lifts him until his toes are just brushing the ground.

Her eyes, black as coal, narrow on him. The action around them has come to a standstill. Erica and Boyd go to Isaac’s side. Stiles thinks he hears Scott whisper his name, but there is a pounding in his ears that his louder than the rainfall. Over the top of the Ježibaba’s head, Stiles can see Derek still straining against whip vines that are spiraled around his arms, his legs, his chest—eyes red and fangs heavy as he pants, steam rising from his skin where the wolfsbane is burning him.

Scott steps forward, his own eyes flashing a deep crimson. “Let him go.”

The woman hums, face snapping towards him, and Stiles chokes when her grip goes tighter. “Which one?”

“Both of them,” Scott says; it’s a demand, not a request.

The Ježibaba’s face goes soft. Coquettish. “Two alphas,” she says and her voice is thick with some accent that Stiles can’t place; her nails dig into his skin, draw blood, and he clutches at her wrist. “I was surprised when I heard, but I expected it when I arrived. _Humans_ are a different story.”

Scott’s jaw goes tight, one hand out in supplication while the other curls into fist at his side. He takes slow steps forward, and his voice is deep when he speaks.

“Let them go,” he says. “Or I will make you.”

She snarls. Then she drops Stiles and the vines come unraveling from around Derek. Stiles collapses in a heap, gasping raggedly.

There is a moment of shuffling. Boyd leaves Isaac’s side to go to Derek, gathering him up onto his feet, and Scott gestures to Stiles with a jerk of his chin. Allison half jogs over to him, taking him by the arm and tugging. Ambling to his feet, Stiles stumbles a bit, Allison’s grip firm on his bicep. They pace back a few steps, and Stiles hisses faintly as he touches his neck, pulling down his shirt collar to inspect the damage.

The Ježibaba watches. Her eyes are deep pools, ominous and inviting, as she glances over them. She links her nails, tastes Stiles’ blood, and hums. The wind whirls around them, nearly drowning her out when she speaks.

“Two humans,” she mutters, eyeing Allison and Stiles. “Running with a pack of wolves.”

“Not as weird as you’re making it,” Stiles says, rubbing at his throat carefully as Allison eases slow circles over his back.

“No?” she tilts her head, the angle odd and jutting, and Stiles hunches over slightly as he tries to catch his breath—medallion hanging down heavy around his neck. “I have been around for a long time _boy_.”

“No doubt about that,” Stiles mutters and Allison bites the inside of her cheek.

The Ježibaba sneers, gesturing over him, eyes flitting. “You’re so much _weaker_. More breakable. It is foolish for wolves to keep you around unless you have some kind of gift. Unless you’re—“ she halts suddenly, stiffening, and she shuffles towards the two of them in stilted movements. “What is that? What is that, there, boy? Show it to me.”

“What--?”

“ _What do you have around your neck_?” she asks, tone groaning to a depth that has them all shuddering.

Stiles’ hand flutters up to the pendant, curling around it tight. The Ježibaba sways for a moment, then stalks forward, too fast for comfort. Allison draws her crossbow up again, tugging Stiles back a step and placing herself between them, expression hard. Everything stills again, faltering to a stop, Allison’s finger hovering over the trigger as the Ježibaba stares beyond her to Stiles.

“Take another step, and you’ll be digging an arrow out of your cerebellum.”

“Allison,” Scott says, voice tight, but her jaw is set and her eyes narrowed.

The Ježibaba smiles, voice going saccharine sweet, like a grandmother offering children cookies. “I will not move. Cross my ancient heart, I will not move. Just let me see it.”

Stiles hesitates. The grip Allison has on his arm eases somewhat, and Stiles clears his throat.

“Just fucking show her,” Erica says, helping Isaac sit up slowly.

Stiles does. He doesn’t take it off, doesn’t trust the Ježibaba enough for that, but he holds it forward as far as the chain will go.

The Ježibaba gasps, long spindly fingers coming up to cover a thin mouth. She shakes, an awed tremble, and she glances from the pendant up to Stiles.

“I did not know,” she says in a harsh whisper. “I could not have known.”

“What?” Stiles frowns.

“I will leave here,” the Ježibaba mutters, half to herself, already backing away as she dips her head. “I will leave here and you shall never hear of me again, I swear it.”

Derek grunts, arm draped over Boyd's shoulders. “What is it? What is that necklace to you?”

She laughs. She laughs and it is a broken, shrill sound that makes them all cringe. Pointing one of those long fingers at Stiles, she tugs her shall around her tighter.

“Power,” she says.

And then she is gone.


	3. hoping (for things that I can't bare)

“I told you,” Peter says, arms crossed over his chest, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Stiles since they walked through the door—still bloody, still scorched at the edges, still soaked—but he’s talking to Derek.

Sitting at the table, Derek shoots Peter a dark scowl. “And I’m fairly certain I told you that I don’t want to hear it.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Stiles is torn between laughing and wincing as Erica dabbles antiseptic against the claw marks still on his neck. Her hair is twisted back and up, out of her eyes, and her lips purse as she treats his cuts with delicate movements. It is not the first time she has patched him up; ever since sophomore year of high school, ever since Gerard, she has been insistent upon making sure the unbearably human member of their pack remains as healthy as possible. Stiles is grateful.

His side already has bandages slapped across it, shirt discarded on the floor by the couch, burn cream itching at the ladder of his ribs as if there is still fire there trying to climb up his skin. If it scars, it will be hell to explain to Luke. His shoulders slump at the thought and his hand comes up to take the pendant Luke gave him between careful fingers. He frowns down at it, at the sharp knots mirroring over the metal, at the emerald stone that shines at the center. He feels, quite suddenly, exhausted.

A hand smooths over his back, large and warm between his shoulder blades. He looks up to see Scott leaning over the back of the couch, and they share a small but tight smile. They’re all tired, all worn thin from a long night of fighting and then searching. After the Ježibaba had disappeared, they had stayed out in the storm, looking. It was only when they found the three children that had gone missing in the past week, locked in the cellar of an old ranger cabin deep in the Preserve, that they finally made their way back to Derek’s, waterlogged and fatigued.

Peter pressed them for details of the fight the instant they walked in, but he already seemed to know what had happened. His focus fell on Stiles. On the amulet still around his neck.

“It’s just a necklace,” Stiles says.

“A necklace that frightened off a very powerful, very old witch.” Peter adds, jaw set. “A necklace given to you by an alpha who we do not know. Do you even know what it is?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, tone sharp. “ _It’s a necklace_.”

Peter lets out a sharp huff of a sound, eyes rolling upwards. “You’re more of an idiot than I thought,” he sneers.

Stiles’ teeth grit, and he brushes Erica’s hands away before pushing to his feet, pulling the pendant from around his neck and holding it out. “Fine, then. Please, Peter, enlighten me as to what this is. _Tell me_ what it is that’s so important about this clunky old relic or _shut the fuck up_ about it.”

“Stiles,” Scott calls to him.

Peter is staring at him with vivid blue eyes, the challenge still hanging between them. His gaze drops to the necklace dangling from Stiles’ fingers, then flits back up. A slow, dark smile spreads over his face and he paces forward, head canting.

“Why don’t you ask your lover?” he asks.

“Why don’t you _get bent_ \--?”

“Stiles,” Derek bites. “That’s enough. The both of you need to stop.”

Scott nods. “Derek’s right. The necklace can wait. We’re all tired.”

Derek shoots him a grateful look.

“The important thing is that the witch thing is gone and the kids she took are safe,” Scott adds, glancing around the room; Allison smiles his way and he gives her a lopsided grin. “We need rest.”

“Right,” Erica mutters, tucking her legs up under herself on the couch. “We’ll all rest, and while we’re sleeping maybe whatever is up with Stiles’ mystical amulet of doom will kill the whole town in our sleep.”

Stiles casts a dirty look over his shoulder at her. “It’s _just_ a necklace.”

She holds up her hands, some kind of surrender, and Boyd moves to her side—taking one of her hands in his. When Isaac makes to add something, still a bit pale from the fight, Scott cuts him off before he can do more than open his mouth.

“We’ll rest,” he says, firm, and Derek is already nodding his head in agreement. “And we’ll regroup tomorrow. Whatever the necklace is, it hasn’t done anything but scare off a witch. For all we know, it could be a good thing.”

Peter snorts.

Derek rolls his shoulders back, tips his chin up. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He leaves no room for further argument.

* * *

“Thanks for the ride,” Scott says.

Stiles nods, lips in a thin line, eyes forward, tracking the windshield wipers back and forth. “No problem, dude. Better than trying to ride that new bike of yours through the rain.”

“Hey,” Scott mutters, voice soft, and he clasps a warm hand over Stiles’ shoulder; Stiles looks over and sighs softly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure out what’s going on later.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “Yeah, man, totally. See you tomorrow. Tell your mom I said hello.”

Scott smiles one more time before opening the car door and sliding out of the passenger seat. Hovering, Stiles waits and watches Scott jog up his house before shifting gears and pulling away.

He drives fast. Faster, probably, than he necessarily should. His headlights catch the heavy rain and refract like streaks of white of the road. He’s still buzzing. The pendant around his neck is starting to feel less and less like an anchor and more like a burden. He sighs heavily, shifts his grip on the wheel, and heads for home.

In the driveway, he sits idle in his jeep, engine off and water drumming against the windshield. He traces over the lines in the pendant with a slow fingertip, chewing on his lower lip. Head falling back against the headrest, his nose wrinkles at the sting along his neck, knows that there will be more than a few scrapes in the morning. His jaw works, and for a very long moment, he is tempted to start the car up again and take off.

Instead, he leans over to the other side of the jeep and pops the glove box open, taking out his cell phone. He learned to stash it in his jeep a long time ago. Swiping his thumb over the screen, he unlocks it, and his features are low lit with a dim blue light. He taps out a message, sends it, and then tucks the phone away into his jeans so that he can climb out of the jeep and run into the house before he can get soaked again.

Against his thigh, his phone buzzes a few times as he unlocks his door and heads inside. He does not answer it, and his own words seem to sear themselves into his skin.

 _I need you_.

He can only hope that Luke will understand.


	4. walk right up

He wakes to his father calling his name from downstairs.  In the first few seconds of bleary drowsiness, he thinks he is late for school.  Then he remembers that he’s a twenty four year old man home for the holidays.  His dad calls him again.  He pushes up in bed, hair sticking up in tufts, and rubs at his eyes with the back of one of his hands.

“I’ll be right down,” he yells. 

Tossing the covers aside, he slips from between the sheets and pads out of his room, down the stairs, and comes to a stuttering halt in the kitchen.  The smile Luke gives him over a cup of steaming coffee sends heat rushing to Stiles’ toes.  Stiles glances briefly at his father at the opposite end of the table, and then makes his way across the dining area with swift motions.  By the time he reaches the head of the table, Luke is already standing.

They embrace.  Stiles’ wraps his arms around him, fingers curling into the soft material of his button-up.  A hand curves over the back of his head, Luke’s fingers easy and gentle as they thread through Stiles’ hair in a familiar way, the other pressing to Stiles’ lower back.  Stiles hides his smile against Luke’s shoulder, but he knows that Luke can feel it when the older man presses a fleeting kiss to his temple. 

“Hello, darling.”  Luke says as they break apart, and Stiles lets out a relieved laugh. 

“I didn’t think you’d make the trip overnight,” Stiles breathes.

“You said you needed me,” Luke shrugs.  “Here I am.”

Stiles’ father clears his throat.

Taking a step back, Stiles’ cheeks go pink, and Luke laughs as he sits back down at the table.  Stiles joins them, taking his spot between them in front of another cup of coffee—paled and sweetened perfectly to Stiles’ liking.  He hides another smile against the rim of the mug, taking a sip.

“So,” the Sheriff starts, his voice loud, and Stiles thinks he might just vibrate out of his own skin.  “Imagine my surprise when I woke up to find your boyfriend on our front porch.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, a bit chided, but his dad looks more amused than anything. 

“A little warning would have been nice,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles nods. 

Luke clears his throat softly, and they both look his way.  “If it helps, I didn’t exactly tell Stiles that I was coming.”

“Well,” the Sheriff nods, glancing between them.  “I guess what matters is that you’re here now.  We have a guest bedroom that I insist you stay in.”

Luke smiles, all charm, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.  “I wouldn’t want to put you out, but I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“You’ll stay here then,” the Sheriff says as he pushes to his feet.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

He pads over to the sink, dumps his coffee out and set the mug inside.  Patting Stiles’ shoulder, he brushes by, heading for the front door. 

“Oh, and Stiles?” his dad pauses in the threshold, looking back at the pair of them.  “No sex in the house.”

The tips of Stiles’ ears go red.  “You got it, dad.”

“And be sure the both of you are here around seven,” the Sheriff adds.  “We’re having dinner, and I’ll be getting to know you, Luke.”

“Sounds like a solid plan, Sheriff.”  Luke replies, and then they’re alone.

Reaching out, Luke takes one of Stiles’ hands in the both of his, fingers warm and encompassing.  Stiles shudders, smiles, and then sighs.

“What’s with the necklace of doom?” he asks quickly, abruptly.

Luke blinks.  “Pardon?”

“The necklace,” Stiles repeats, free hand going to the amulet still hanging heavy around his neck.  “This necklace.  Why is it--  _What_ is it and why is it so important?”

“Stiles,” Luke frowns, eyes flitting from the amulet, to the cuts still red and angry on Stiles’ neck, and to his face.  “What happened?”

“Nothing good,” Stiles confesses, lacing their fingers loosely.  “But then something very weird.  Please, just…  Tell me the truth.”

Luke’s lips thin, but he’s already nodding, already bringing Stiles’ hand up to his lips to ghost a kiss over the ridges of Stiles’ knuckles.  “Of course.  I’ve never lied to you.”

There is a wash of relief.  Kinetic energy like cool water down the slope of Stiles’ spine.  His lips twitch, a fleeting and pleased little smile, and Luke returns it.

“I must admit, though.” Luke mutters, mouth still pressed lightly to Stiles’ skin.  “It’s a _very_ long story.”

Stiles grins.  “I’ve got all day.”


	5. taken in by surprise

“Is the weather usually this bad on this side of the continent?” Luke asks, frowning up at the thick clouds hanging overhead, one hand tucked into the warm pocket of a black wool pea coat, the other wrapped up firmly in Stiles’.

“Sometimes we get snow,” Stiles mutters, marching along a familiar path through the Preserve.

Luke hums, trailing at his side through the trees.  “Not this holiday season, though?”

“Not if it doesn’t snow between now and next week.”

“We would’ve had a white Christmas had we stayed in New York.”

Stiles casts a dry look his way, attempting anger that comes off as fond, familiar exasperation.  “You didn’t have to come.  You don’t even like Christmas.”

“You needed me,” Luke shrugs and Stiles stops. 

The afternoon has left the world dimmer, almost dark.  There is a blue hue to everything; Stiles’ features seem more delicate, more defined, and Luke looks almost regal, as if the softening light is gentler and more honest.

It does not help that Luke has always dressed well.  Not does it help that he is unruffled by Stiles’ ire; posture steady, e3xpression calm, hair cinched back at his nape like he keeps it during lectures.  Following gracefully after Stiles through the forest, he appears like he belongs there, if only to contrast with how much Stiles doesn’t, with his flush cheeks and wild hair.

Stiles clutches at Luke’s fingers with a firmness that stems from the resentment still twisting inside of his chest and the desperation warring with it.  His grip is unyielding, but Luke wouldn’t attempt to pull away anyways. 

“You keep saying that,” Stiles tells him.

“Stiles,” Luke breathes, and it fogs between them as Stiles twists to face him.  “You _know_ what you mean to me.  Especially now.”

His eyes, vivid and dark in the waning light, drift pointedly to the amulet Stiles has still not taken off.  The color high on Stiles’ cheeks, on his nose, burns brighter.  He shuffles close to Luke, almost out of habit, and Luke reaches up, hand gentle at Stiles’ jaw, the other twining with Stiles’.  Stiles finds himself seeking comfort in his touch despite the sharp pull in his belly that keeps telling him to step away.

“You’re important to me,” Luke sighs, a thumb dragging over Stiles’ lower lip, tracing the fullness of it as Stiles’ eyes flutter.  “I wouldn’t have given that to you if you weren’t worth the trouble.”

Not for the first time that day, Stiles is keenly aware of the weight of the necklace around his throat, resting just below the hollow at his collar.  He swallows thickly, mouth dry, and leans into Luke’s palm.

“Why me?” he asks; he cannot help but ask.

Luke smiles.  “I’ve already told you that.”

* * *

 

“The first thing I need you to know is that I would never do anything that might cause you harm,” Luke tells him over their coffee, still sitting at the kitchen table.  “I need you to understand that.”

“I know,” Stiles insists.  “I do.”

“Good,” Luke presses another kiss to the row of Stiles’ knuckles.  “The next is that I am not everything that I seem.”

Stiles snorts.  “You mean you’re something _more_ than a really hot alpha werewolf?”

“Yes,” Luke says, watching Stiles’ shoulders draw tight.  “And no.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s difficult to explain succinctly.”

“What?  Are you a serial killer?  Secret super soldier for British Intelligence sent to the Americas in some crazy scheme to brainwash the history students at Colombia University?  _What_?”

“I… I have a very _long_ history—one that is just as difficult to explain as it is to understand.”  Luke’s lips twitch briefly in amusement before twisting into a grimace; it is a look Stiles usually only sees when his lover has been grading particularly dense essays or exams, and he instantly wants to lean in and kiss it away, beard-burn be damned.  “Stiles, I—I am… very _old_.”

Stiles’ brows shoot up.  “Pardon?” he squeaks.

“Older than I appear.  Much older.”  Luke admits, a bit slowly.  “In fact, I—Well, I don’t exactly age.”

There is a moment.  Stiles blinks.  Then he laughs.

Patiently, Luke waits until Stiles’ shocked amusement passes.  He waits until the words seem to sink in properly.  When Stiles sobers, jerking slightly in his seat as he realizes Luke is quite serious, Luke’s hold on Stiles’ hand stays firm.  He refuses to let Stiles pull away from him for this.

“ _What_?”

“I do not age,” he repeats.  “I’m immortal, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head, eyes closing, brows drawing together.  His fingers twitch in Luke’s, and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“If this is a joke—“

“It isn’t.”

“What _are_ you?” Stiles snaps, gaze narrow and accusing when he finally looks at him again.  “Part—Part _vampire_ or something--?”

“No,” Luke says, tone steady.  “I am no vampire, Stiles.  The vast majority of vampires are—“

 He stops.  Stiles is pressed against the wood back of his chair, eyeing him warily.  Taking a deep breath, Luke turns Stiles’ hand over in his, tracing the intricate lines of Stiles’ palm with the tip of a finger.  There is a ring on it, and the ruby set in the worn silver gleams dully in the low light of the kitchen.  Stiles tracks it with his eyes as Luke follows the long arch of Stiles’ life line.

From across the table, Luke can hear the steady uptick of Stiles’ heart.  It is not something he enjoys being the cause of, except for when they are in bed.  He frowns, sighing, and catches Stiles’ gaze with his own. 

“Vampires are few and far between these days,” Luke says.  “And while they are an important part of my history, I am not one.”

“What are you then?”

Luke straightens out a bit, shoulders rolling.  “An alpha werewolf.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, attempting to pull his hand away, but Luke is determined to keep hold of it.  “Luke—“

“The _first_ alpha werewolf,” Luke adds quickly.  “Though, the werewolves of my time were rabid.  Beasts.  Nothing more than monsters.  I was the first to be… different.”

“Different?”

“To be born human,” he smiles.  “To control the transformation.  To command the will of others.  Though, I did not always call myself a werewolf.”

Stiles blinks slowly, lips parting on a breath before he can will words over his tongue.  “What did you call yourself?”

“Our kind—my kind—were what are called Lycans,” Luke’s finger drags along the heart line, back and forth.  “I was the first Lycan.  The first to be both human and beast.  A lot like today’s werewolves; our descendants.”

“Descendants--? The _first_ \--?” Stiles is shaking his head again, brows pinched, expression confused and curious and frustrated all at once.  “How old _are_ you?”

“Seven hundred and ninety-four.”

Luke lets Stiles jerk away this time.  Watches as Stiles recoils, eyes wide on Luke’s face.  Winces faintly when Stiles rubs at his hand, as if to erase Luke’s own touch. 

“Give or take a decade or two,” Luke mutters, gripping his coffee mug to keep from reaching for Stiles again.  “I didn’t always keep track.”

Stiles focus falls to his own coffee where it is pale with crème and sugar in his cup.  Just the ways he likes it.  His pulse is pounding in his ears.  He hears Luke shift in the chair across from him.

“And the amulet?” Stiles mumbles.

“Belonged to someone I loved a very long time ago, when I was young—“ that earns him a shaky, bitter laugh, “—and naïve.  After she died, I kept it.  To remember what happened.  To remember how much I—how much I loved.”

Stiles looks up sharply, breath catching somewhere in his chest.  “Your anchor.”

“Of sorts,” Luke gives a slow nod.

“Why—? Why give it to me?  And why do people recognize it?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Apart from the mess of protections cast into it that _should_ have kept you safe from anyone meaning you harm—which, we _will_ talk about, by the way, and I will make the necessary changes to the castings to be sure it does its _job_ next time,” he looks at the marks on Stiles’ neck pointedly, and Stiles shifts in his seat, happy Luke cannot see through his shirt to the burn on his side.  “It is also my symbol.  Those who recognize it will recognize that you are protected by those that follow me—if not me, myself.”

“Why wouldn’t they assume you?”

“Many believe me to be dead.”

A soft _jesus_ falls over Stiles’ lips before he buries his face in his hands.  “ _Why_ give it to _me_?  Why did you—?  Why would you give me something so important?”

“Stiles,” Luke breathes, smile small but warm, and he shifts forward in his chair to offer his hands, palms up, resting on the table between them.  “ _You_ are important to me.  I want you safe.  I want you protected.”

“Forgive me if I find it a little difficult to believe this _Twilight_ sob story,” Stiles replies thickly, tucking his own hands carefully into his lap, though the motion does nothing to diminish the hopeful, earnest look on Luke’s face.  “What--? What _sane,_ centuries old werewolf goes for a man in his twenties unless it’s completely casual?”

That grimace is back.  Luke sits back in his seat, lips pressed thin, and he regards Stiles for a quiet moment. 

In his chest, Stiles’ heart is still thudding heavily.  His head feels stuffed full; his throat is tight, and there is a steady pressure building up behind his eyes.  The ache beneath his breastbone does nothing to ease the mounting tension in his back, nor the churning of his belly.  He doesn’t want any of this to be true, but he knows it cannot be a lie.

He doesn’t know if he wants to hear whatever it is that Luke has to say.

“At first,” Luke breathes.  “I just enjoyed your company.  You reminded me—of her.  Of her ferocity.  Of her wit. 

“When you were my student, I could only be your teacher.  Your instructor.  And that is exactly what I was.  Yet, more and more, I felt this… gravity toward you.  Having you in class was always interesting; never boring.  You were the brightest pupil I’ve ever had, and I wanted to encourage that.  So I reached out to you.  I grew closer to you.

“Then… Then you graduated.  And then you were accepted into the MA to PhD program.  And then we were… colleagues, of sorts.  You were no longer beneath me in a way that could put you at risk, so I—Well, you know how the rest of this goes.”

Stiles stares at him. 

“…And?”

“And I am—I _have been_ quite taken with you.  For years, really.”  Luke confesses.  “You are wise beyond your years, smart, beautiful.  You make me laugh.  Something I didn’t know I could properly do anymore.”

The kitchen is quiet for a long moment.  In the corner, the refrigerator kicks on, its humming filling the silence. 

Stiles’ head is swimming.  He thinks his throat is caught somewhere between his larynx and esophagus.  He’s hardly breathing.

“What does that mean?” he whispers, afraid to speak too loud, unable to muster the courage to.  “What are you saying?”

“It means you’re important to me.  More important than an amulet.”  Luke says, eyes never leaving Stiles’ face.  “I’m saying that I love you.”

* * *

 

Stiles winces away from Luke’s touch, finding the other man’s suddenly too hot, too big, too _much_ against his skin.  His lips press thin, eyes darting off blindly to the brush as he puts space between them.  At his sides, his fingers tremble.  Luke watches, without protest, but frowns all the same. 

Dragging a hand through his hair, Stiles huffs out a shuddering breath.  “Can we not do this, right now?”

“When would you prefer?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles’ voice cracks.  “Later?  In three hours?  Tomorrow?  A week? _Never_?”

“Stiles—“

“It’s a little much to _process_ , okay?” Stiles says, hands curling into loose fists at his sides.  “First, there’s the whole immortal, mega werewolf slash Lycan slash whatever thing—which, granted, pretty fucking cool, and you _know_ all I want to do is pick your brain about it, but also _what the actual fuck_ , Luke?”

He opens his mouth to calm him or maybe to offer Stiles the opportunity to pick over his mind.  Stiles holds up a finger, and Luke’s teeth click when his jaw snaps shut.

“ _Then_ , you go and drop the _L_ word, like, _five seconds_ later while I’m still over here freaking out about the whole I’ve been seriously dating and serially fucking an immortal, mega werewolf thing—and it’s just a lot to try and handle, _okay_?”   

Luke looks like he might laugh, mirth bright in his eyes.  He tries to cover it behind a hand and with a cough.  Stiles’ eyes narrow dangerously.

“Understandable,” Luke finally mutters.

Eye twitching, Stiles’ cheek puff out.  He crouches suddenly, sharply, scooping up dead leaves, twigs, and dirt by the handful before lobbing them at Luke.

“Understandable?” Stiles dredges up another fistful, striking Luke rather soundly in the chest with a small rock.  “ _Understandable_?”

“Stiles—“ Luke ducks another shower of dirt and brush.  “Stiles, really, this is childish—“

“I’m a child, then!” Stiles crows vehemently.  “How can you--?  This entire situation is absolutely _absurd_ , Luke!”

He stalls for a second, blinking.  Luke peeks over at him from behind the black sleeve of his coat.  His brow his up, his hair messy.  Stiles is only frozen for half a second more.

“ _Is your name even Luke_?” he asks, throwing a bit harder.  “ _How_ are you immortal?  Are there others like you?  Why aren’t my friends like you?  What the _fuck_?”

“My name is Lucian.”

Stiles freezes again, breathless and flush. 

“It was given to me when I was born by the vampire that took me in and enslaved me.  I do not know _why_ I am the way I am, I just always have been.”  Luke confesses, stepping forward slow, hands outstretched placatingly.  “There are others, though many have been killed over the years—in conflict with each other, with vampires, with hunters.  Most believe me dead.  Those wise enough know better.”

The space Stiles had put between them disappears.  Luke reaches for him, and Stiles doesn’t pull away; the remaining clusters of leaves slipping from his fingers.  Taking Stiles’ face between his hands, Luke brushes his thumbs along the high lines of Stiles’ cheeks.  Stiles shudders.

“I love you,” Luke exhales, like a benediction, eyes intent on Stiles’ features.  “I would not have told you any of this otherwise.  I’m sorry I kept it from you for so long.”

Stiles grunts, shifting from foot to foot.  “I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to take me to this Nemeton you told me about so I can see if it’s the reason the charms on your amulet didn’t work the way they should have,” Luke tells him.  “Then I want you to think about what it is that I have told you today.  I’m not expecting you to accept this all so easily, Stiles.  I will try and make this as easy as possible for you, darling.”

Stiles’ eyes flit between his.  “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you staying at the house,” Stiles insists in a rush.  “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.  I have the means to procure myself a hotel room.  If you don’t mind me staying in town?”

“No.  No, I—No, that’s fine.” Stiles sags with relief.

“Shall we?”

“Yes.”

Luke’s hands drop from Stiles’ face.  “Lead on.”

Stiles does.

* * *

 

The building is angular.  It hangs off the coast, like it might slip from the high cliffs and into the waves crashing below.  The white walls are away in pinks and purples.  As the sun sinks below the horizon, they appear nearly red, a crimson gemstone nestled into the golden coast. 

Night falls.  The blackout windows shift, then rise.  Music pours out, followed closely by laughter and cheers.  The jeering only settles when a man holds up his hands and the voices around him go hushed.

He’s dressed in white, and he tucks his hands into his pant pockets, button-up half open, feet bare.  Regarding the man trembling on his knees in front of him, he crouches, head cocked.

“Repeat that for me?”

“The—The amulet—Corvinus’ amulet has been spotted, Deacon, sir.”

Reaching out, he catches the man by the chin, tipping his face up.  “Your source?”

“A witch,” he shudders.  “Saw it—Saw it herself.  Around the neck of a man.  A human man.”

“Where?”

“Beacon Hills, sir.”

Outside, thunder rumbles in the distance.  Deacon hums, gaze sharp and teeth sharper when he smiles. 

“Thank you for your service.”

He moves to fast to properly see it.  There is, however, no mistaking the loud _popcrack_ that the man’s neck makes before he slumps over: dead.  Deacon stands.

The cheering starts again.


	6. old heart

Thumb brushing against the cool metal warmed only by the heat of his body, he frowns to himself and shifts.  The cold of evening is settling into the Preserve, into his bones, and he winds his arms tighter around himself.  The longer they linger, the colder he feels, numb fingers tracing the intricate knots that frame the emerald set at the center of the amulet.  It feels so heavy, so strong, around his neck.

Across from him, Luke—Lucian?—is crouched before the vast expanse of the Nemeton.  His hand is out, hovering and never quite touching, eyes intent on the living nexus.  Even from where he is standing at the edge of the clearing, Stiles can feel the push, pull _throb_ of light and dark mingling beneath the surface of the earth.

It had been heady, at first, the realization that the Nemeton had been and still is very much a living thing.  There was no heart, yet it still retained a pulse.  It is a pulse that Scott, Allison, and Stiles had breathed into it nearly a decade previous that has beat, that still beats, that _will_ beat until they are all gone.  These days, the Nemeton is a simple constant.

“You’re connected to this,” Luke says when he glances back at Stiles.

“Yes.”

“You gave it a part of yourself,” he pushes to his feet, regarding Stiles with a gaze usually reserved for an interesting piece of historic literature.

“When I was a kid,” Stiles nods.

“Do you feel it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you feel it right now?”

Stiles’ gaze darts to the Nemeton.  The earth breathes beneath his feet.  Stiles nods.

“Yes,” he sighs.

Luke hums, drawing closer.  “I believe that is what is interfering with the charms on the amulet.  The closer you are to it, the less responsive they become.”

A brow shoots up and Stiles crosses his arms.  “Are you implying the Nemeton wants me dead?”

“Just the opposite, actually.  It very much wants you alive.”

“But?”

“It’s imprecise,” Luke shrugs, stopping before him.  “Hurt is not dead.”

It makes Stiles pause.  “Hurt _is_ not-dead,” Stiles agrees reluctantly.

“Exactly.”

“So that’s it then?”

“From what I can tell.  You said the witch stopped when she saw the amulet?”

Stiles nods.

“How did that happen?”

“Purely accidental,” Stiles mutters, but his eyes are on the Nemeton again, narrowed in doubt.  “It fell out of my shirt.”

Grunting, Luke twists to glance back at the old stump.  “Perhaps not so accidental.”

In his pocket, Stiles’ phone chimes.  He pulls it out, the screen near blinding in the dim evening light.  Frowning down at it, he slides it unlocked and taps out a reply.

Shuffling close, Luke peers down.  Stiles lets him.  It would not be the first time; it would very likely, hopefully, not be the last.  While wary of Luke’s company, Stiles could not find his trust of the safety he found in the man diminished in the least.

“My dad’s working late tonight,” Stiles tells him despite the need not to.

“No family dinner, then?”

Stiles casts him a dirty look.  Luke’s smile is sharp.  Overhead, the clouds shift, letting halfmoon light stream down through the trees.  Luke’s eyes are drawn to the way silver and blue play over Stiles’ features.

“Shame,” Luke murmurs, swaying into Stiles’ space.  “I would have enjoyed dining with you and your father.”

“Can you _not_?” Stiles huffs, stepping away, and stopping only when a hand curls tight around his wrist.

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.” Luke tells him in a rushed voice, tone soft, and the tight line of Stiles’ shoulders drops almost instantly.  “Let’s walk back to the car, and you can tell me about the witch.  Then I’ll head to a hotel.”

Hesitating, Stiles’ eyes flit between Luke’s.  There is nothing but sincerity there.  He catches the twitch of Luke’s jaw and knows, sees it as a sign that he’s trying, that he’s holding something back, that he wants to pull Stiles close to try and erase the space his secrets have made between them, but he doesn’t because he knows Stiles needs that space.

The hand around his wrist is loose.  He knows Luke has an innate strength in him; there is power coiled under his skin, in his muscles, in his marrow.  Stiles has witnessed it, has been at the mercy of it.  He is not at the mercy of it now.  For that, he is grateful.

“Yeah, okay.” He says, shivering, and pulls his arm free.  “I’m getting cold anyway.”

Luke sheds his coat in a smooth motion, then offers it to Stiles with a tentative smile.  It doesn’t matter that Stiles vacillates before taking it.  What matters is that, after a moment, he does and it settles like comfort over his shoulders.

* * *

 

When morning comes, it does not bring warmth with it.  The light that pours into Stiles’ windows is dim and grey.  Outside, the trees are bare, and there is a steady wind that cuts through the town, whipping against the walls of the Stilinski home until its inhabitants stir.

In bed, Stiles turns over.  On his nightstand, there is a gold amulet.  He stares at it for a long time, limbs heavy, breath soft.  Something in him itches with longing; he rubs absently at his chest, just over where his heart is beating.  The wind outside howls.

He remembers the night before.  After the long trek back through the Preserve, they had climbed into Stiles’ jeep and driven back into town.  Luke had him head toward the nicest place to stay in Beacon Hills, and Stiles had dropped him off at the only place in town with five stars.  The ride was awkward, filled with stiff silence, but the worst part had been when Stiles realized that, as he pulled into the parking lot, he didn’t want Luke to go at all. 

His lover had seemed to know.  He always seemed to know.  He’d leaned over the gearshift to press a kiss—sweet, chaste, adoring—to the corner of Stiles’ mouth before sliding out of the car with an absurd amount of grace.  He’d told Stiles to come by in the morning with his things if he wanted.  He’d smiled, told Stiles he loved him, and walked away.  He’d left Stiles aching and consumed with his own indecision about his feelings and about everything Luke had told him that day.

On his bedside table, his phone buzzes.  Luke’s coat is hanging over the back of Stiles’ desk chair.  In the room across the hall, Luke’s bags sit at the foot of the bed, waiting.  Stiles sighs.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Stiles sits up and the sheets pool at his hips.  The room is cold, shockingly so, but it helps him push past the grogginess still clinging to his mind and eases the still present burn at his side from his injury.  He reaches over, plucking up first his phone and then the necklace.  He puts the amulet on first; it settles, a steady weight against his clavicle.  Looking down at his phone, he swipes it open, and reads the text waiting there for him.

_You have a lot to think about.  I’m here when you’re ready._

Stiles frowns, hating the way his heart aches in his chest.  Glancing down at the amulet, he cradles it in his palm, brushing his thumb over the emerald there. 

Something small, something at the back of his mind, _burns_ with curiosity.

* * *

 

To say that Chris is a little surprised is a small understatement.  It has been years since he’s opened his door to find Stiles standing there, and even longer since Stiles has had such a look of unsure panic, appearing very much like the young fifteen year old boy who had shown up, desperate to make sure Allison had made it home safe and nothing like the man Chris knows he’s grown into.  He frowns at the sight, and opens his door a bit wider.

“Stiles,” he greets.  “What can I do for you?”

The younger man hesitates before his expression sets firm: determined.  “What do you know about Lycans?”

Blinking, Chris falters, and then steps aside.  “I think you’d better come inside,” he says.

Stiles does.

Chris leads him back through the apartment to his study.  He offers Stiles the leather wingback in front of his desk before rounding it in order to pull open the blinds.

In the chair, Stiles fidgets.  His expression is pinched in a way that leaves unease churning in Chris’ belly.  Easing into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Chris leans forward, elbows resting on the lacquered wooden top.  He looks to Stiles expectantly, and Stiles reflects the expression back at him, brows up.

“So,” he prompts.  “Lycans.”

“Right,” Chris clears his throat.  “Can I get you anything to drink, Stiles?”

“Unless it’s whiskey, no.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Then no,” Stiles repeats, tone dry.

Sighing, Chris scrubs a tired hand over his jaw.  “Why, exactly, do you want to know about Lycans, Stiles? And why come to me?”

“You’re the only one that can give me an objective answer right now,” Stiles confesses on a half laugh, shifting in his chair again, carefully avoiding the first question.

“Okay,” Chris mutters slowly, pushing to his feet and moving to his bookcase.

The office is lined with them.  Shelf upon shelf of books.  Some look incredibly mundane, spines unbroken and shiny, popular titles big and bold.  Others have seen the loving wear of use.

Stiles watches as Chris looks for a specific text.  He listens, silently, as the older man mutters to himself, and perks when Chris makes a soft, pleased sound before sliding one of the old, worn books from its place on the top shelf.  When the book is then thrust into Stiles’ hands, he takes it without hesitation.

“What is this?” he asks, cracking it open with long, cautious fingers.

“It’s the immortals’ grimoire,” Chris says, almost offhand, moving to lean against the edge of his desk as he watches Stiles thumb gingerly through yellowed pages.  “Not original, mind you.  The original is made out of human skin.”

Stiles looks up sharply.

“Don’t worry, that one isn’t.” Chris chuckles, grin crooked.  “Like I said, it isn’t an original.  Just old.”

“And?”

“ _And_ in it, you’ll find a number of myths about legendary items and the origins of the vast majority of creatures that are still around today.  Including Lycans.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles’ gaze falls back to the book in his lap.  Chris watches, arms crossed over his chest.

He waits as Stiles skims through it, eyes avid on stained, stiff pages.  He knows the exact moment Stiles finds whatever it is that he was looking for.  The younger man’s body goes still, agitated, like he’s static personified.  His breath catches.  The tips of his fingers brush one word, then another.  They hover, almost reverent, against a third.

Uncomfortable, Chris clears his throat.  “You’re fast.”

“It’s thirteenth century stuff.  I had a very good linguistics professor that spent a lot of time focusing on printed language as it was before the Hundred Years’ War with France,” Stiles mumbles, absent, eyes locked to the page as he licks his lips.  “Or, you know, what we consider France today.”

“Stiles,” Chris tries again.  “What are you looking for?”

Looking up, Stiles blinks, as if just remembering Chris was there at all.  “Um… There’s, uh… I have this thing that I’m trying to figure out, and—I just wanted to do some… some fact checking—“

He falters, cutting himself off with a wince, and drops his gaze back to the grimoire in shame.  What he’s ashamed of, Chris doesn’t know.  He’s tempted to reach out to Stiles, but he doesn’t.

Stiles taps a name with his finger, the word he’d lingered so long on, and holds the book out to Chris.  “What can you tell me about him?”

Taking the text, Chris tilts his head and frowns down at the one indicated.  “Lucian?  The first Lycan?”

Stiles makes a choked sound.  “Yeah,” he grunts.

“About what it says here,” Chris shrugs.  “First of his kind—of what eventually turned into today’s modern werewolves.  Born into slavery under the immortals ruling at the time.  Vampires.  He started a revolt that turned into a war until he was killed by a vampire by the name of Craven.”

“Nothing else?”

Chris’ brows draw together.  “It’s suggested that he might have blood ties with the Corvinus line.  The first of the immortals.  Stiles, what is this about?”

Jaw tight, Stiles breathes out sharply one, studying Chris for a second longer.  His movements are jerky, harsh, when he tugs the necklace hiding beneath the cotton of his shirt free. 

Unlatching it, he offers it up to Chris, amulet large against the palm of his hand.  Chris stares, lips parting.  He snaps the copy of the grimoire shut, setting it aside before reaching out.  Taking the talisman with care, Chris holds it up into the light, gaze tracing the intricate knots in the metal.

“Do you recognize that?” Stiles asks, throat working nervously.

“Where did you--?”

“ _Do you recognize it_?”

“Yes.”

“Whose was it?”

“Lucian’s.  It was his symbol.  The symbol for war.” Chris tells him, voice going low, eyes not leaving the pendant.  “And before that, it belonged to vampires as a symbol of royal blood.  As a symbol of the Corvinus line.  It’s why people believed Lucian related to them.”

Stiles stares at him for a long, quiet moment.  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze darting between Chris’ face and the necklace.  When he speaks, his voice is soft; hardly there at all.  “Why do you say it’s a symbol for war?”

“Because anytime it appears, there is one.”

Something in Stiles’ stomach turns over.  He holds his hand out, palm up, and Chris reluctantly lays the amulet there.

Christ looks at him.  He watches Stiles carefully place the necklace back around his throat and tuck it beneath his shirt.  He watches Stiles place his palm over where it is resting, hidden, against his skin.

“Still want that whiskey?” Chris asks, voice rough.

Stiles barks out a laugh, then nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah, actually, that sounds great.”

* * *

 

Allison doesn’t knock when she walks into her dad’s apartment, Scott trailing behind her, sometime after noon.  She calls out from the foyer, and the only reply she gets back is the sound of boisterous laughter coming from the living room.  Scott and her exchange an odd look, both of their noses wrinkled as they shed their coats and shoes—both wet from the rain that had started pouring an hour previous.

They follow the noise away from the entryway and into the sitting room.  When they spot Stiles there, sitting across from Chris on the floor, with a chess board on the coffee table between them, they falter.  Scott elbows Allison and gestures to the two tumblers sitting on the table too—half full and sweating.  Frowning, Allison clears her throat and shuffles further into the room.

“Um, dad?”

Christ looks up, grinning at his daughter and her boyfriend, waving them deeper into the room.  “Come on in, sweetie.  Stiles is just riveting me with a story about his immortal boyfriend.”

“ _What_?” Scott practically chokes on his own tongue.

Allison pads over, taking a seat next to her father, eyes instantly on Stiles’ flush face.  “Your boyfriend is immortal?”

“And very possibly a mass murderer,” Stiles chirps.

“ _And_ likely the first ever werewolf to transform,” Chris adds.

“And he’s in love with me!”

Chris snorts.  “And he apparently _cannot stand_ spicy foods.”

“As if chorizo and eggs is _spicy_ ,” Stiles rolls his eyes.  “He’s a big baby.  Check.”

Chris frowns down at the chessboard.

“Can we get back to the whole immortal thing?” Allison nudges her father.

Scott raises a hand.  “I second that motion.”

Unclasping the pendant from around his neck, Stiles slides it across the coffee table toward them.  With a frown, Allison tentatively plucks it up.  Her thumb drags over the gem set at the center of the metal, and she flips it over between her fingers.  Lips thinning, she glances up and between her father and Stiles.

“Does this mean something?” she asks.  “I mean, I know Peter had a hissy fit about it, but—“

“We need to work on your studies,” Chris sighs.  “ _That_ is the symbol for a very old bloodline.  It’s also the symbol for a very powerful faction of werewolves.  A very powerful faction run by a man named Lucian, historically known for their very violent, very bloody wars with vampires.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Scott mutters slowly, taking the pendant as Allison passes it to him.  “That doesn’t mean that Stiles’ boyfriend is necessarily immortal, right?  He’s a history guy, and you said historically, so—Maybe he just… thought it was cool?”

Stiles’ lips purse.  “I _might_ be able to buy that if he hadn’t shown up yesterday to tell me who he really is.”

“Who he really is?” Allison prompts.

“Lucian,” Stiles shrugs.  “My boyfriend is a werewolf from the 14th century.”

“Well, that’s… special.”  Allison clears her throat.

“He’s in town?”  Scott is scowling.  “ _Here_?”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing a hand over his head, hair sticking up at odd angles.  “I invited him.  I needed—I needed to know what was up, after that witch freaked, and he—Well, he came without hesitating.”

Allison tilts her head.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean I told him I needed him, and the next morning, he was here.” Stiles mumbles, picking at his cuticles. 

Allison’s expression goes soft.  “And then?”

“And then when I asked him about it, he told me _mostly_ the truth.”  Stiles huffs, smile tight.  “And then he told me he loves me.”

“That’s…” Scott sighs.  “A lot to take in.”

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks.

The silence that falls is heavy.  From his spot on the couch, Chris clears his throat, and then stands.  He excuses himself quietly before walking toward the kitchen, taking his and Stiles’ glasses with him. 

Stiles sighs, shoulders slumped, and buries his face in his hands.  Across from him, Allison and Scott exchange a look.  Scott smiles, holding out his hand, and Allison takes it, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.  Focus falling back to their friend, Scott leans forward, his grin lopsided but tentative.

“So how do _you_ feel about _him_?” he asks.

Stiles blinks up at them.  “What?”

“He says he loves you.  And yeah, he’s got all of this crazy new baggage, but isn’t he still the guy you’ve been pining after since your undergrad?” Scott nudges at Stiles’ leg under the coffee table with his foot.  “How do you feel about him?”

“I’m angry at him,” Stiles says.

“Of course you are,” Allison waves her free hand.  “Who wouldn’t be?  But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel something.”

Brows furrowing, Stiles sits back and glances between them.  “You aren’t _worried_ about this?  He could be the Alpha pack all over again.  Or the Darrach.  Or that weird Kappa thing from senior year.  Or that haunted house out in—“ 

“Do you think he is?” Allison asks.

Stiles’ lips press thin.

Sighing, Scott offers the necklace back to Stiles.  “If you think he’s dangerous, I’ll back you up in whatever you decide needs done.  No matter what.  But Stiles… When was the last time he or his people—faction— _whatever_ were involved in anything crazy violent?”

Fidgeting, Stiles eyes the pendant, then Allison.  “Your dad said the last recorded debacle was probably late 1700s.  Then everything about him and—and _Lycans_ went quiet.  Like they ceased to exist.”

“Or changed their ways,” Allison offers.

Stiles snorts, finally taking the amulet back, fingers reverent against the metal.  “I doubt that.  I think it’s more likely that there were a lot less vampire about.”

Scott’s brows shoot up.

“The Great Vampire Panic,” Stiles brushes off with a shake of his head.  “Real popular in New England, among other places.”

“So the increase of…” Allison’s brow pinches.

“Lycans,” Stiles supplies.

“The increase of Lycans and Lycan violence was likely dependent on vampires?” she asks.

“Old school feud,” Stiles nods glumly.  “With a tendency to catch innocent bystanders up in the mess.”

“Well,” Scott glances at Allison again.  “I haven’t seen any vampires around these parts.  And I’m assuming you would have noticed your boyfriend sneaking out at night to lead a war against them.”

Stiles falters, lips parting.  “Are you—Are you guys trying to tell me to overlook the whole big, huge, _massive_ omission of, oh, _immortality_ and a history of war just because I love him, or…?”

Scott’s smile is bright.  “So you _do_ love him.”

Cheeks flooding with color, Stiles shrugs.  “Why does it matter?”

“Because if you love him, you have a choice to make.” Allison replies, tone achingly earnest.

“Which is?”

“To leave him—for lying, for keeping this all a secret, for betraying your trust.” Allison sits back, watching Stiles carefully.  “Or to forgive him—for all the same reasons.”

Stiles swallows thickly, eyes on the amulet.  They let him sit in silence.  Let him think.  Let him run a fingertip along the lines of delicate knots engraved in gold. 

When Chris comes back, Stiles is still thinking, Allison and Scott still waiting.  He sits and moves a chess piece.

* * *

 

It is well into the afternoon when someone knocks on Luke’s hotel door.  When he opens it, he finds Stiles there, smelling like fresh rain with the necklace clutched in one hand and Luke’s bag in the other.

Luke steps aside, silently inviting Stiles into the suite with him.  Hesitant, Stiles pads inside, walking to the middle of the vast, welcoming room before dropping Luke’s bag to the floor at his feet.  Luke sighs softly, shutting the door with a quiet click.  He’s barefoot, in the same trousers as the day previous, shirtless with his long hair loose.

There is a feeling of dread in his stomach.  A side effect of the rigid line of Stiles’ shoulders.  He tentatively reaches out for Stiles, flinching when Stiles turns sharply to face him, looking no less frustrated, harried, exasperated than the eve previous.  Luke inhales and catches the sharp tang of anger, along with something sweet that he cannot name just under the surface.  Something like honey.

“Stiles—“

“I’m still mad,” Stiles cuts him off, fingers drumming against his thigh. 

“I know,” Luke nods.  “I’m sorry.”

“I’m still mad, but I’m trying not to be, I’m trying to forgive you, but you have to—You can’t hide something like this from me again.”  Stiles insists, holding up the necklace.  “You have to _promise me_.”

“I promise,” Luke breathes instantly, hands coming up to frame Stiles face, wanting to soothe the panicked staccato of Stiles’ heart.  “I _promise_.”

Stiles wavers.  He stares up at him, lashes thick and fluttering, searching Luke’s face.  For deception or for honesty, Luke isn’t sure.  In the next moment though, he’s nodding, hands coming up to clutch at Luke’s bicep, to tangle deep into his dark hair.  Stiles tugs him down until their mouths meet, lips slanting under lips, and Luke goes more than willingly.

They press flush.  Luke’s hands are big as they slip down to Stiles’ waist, then ease up under the hem of his shirt.  They’re hot against Stiles’ skin, and Stiles’ needy sound is lost between them as Luke licks past the part of his full lips, past his teeth, dipping into the welcome heat of Stiles’ mouth.  The tip of Luke’s tongue drags over the roof of Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles arches, shudders, whimpers.

Fingers tight in Luke’s hair, Stiles pulls and angles his lover’s head, begs the kiss deeper without words.  Luke groans, tugging Stiles impossibly closer.  It is a hunger, messy thing.  They only part from their desperate embrace when they need breath; even then, Luke refuses to stop littering Stiles’ lips with chaste kisses.  Their foreheads rest together, Stiles’ breath hitching and catching somewhere in his chest as Luke runs soothing stokes up and down Stiles’ back.

“You promise,” he mumbles, eyes still shut.

“I promise,” Luke nods.

Stiles glances at the amulet in hand, thumb brushing along its solid surface as he nods.  “You love me.”

“I love you,” Luke whispers, arms tightening round Stiles’ waist, wishing his lover could hear how steady his heart is. 

“Good,” Stiles huffs, looking back up at him, the necklace dangling from his fingers where he’s still clutching Luke’s arm.  “Because I love you too.”

Luke stares at him, eyes wide, chest full of hope.  Stiles smiles, lips red, chin already a bit rosy from Luke’s beard.  He gestures to the large bed with a nod, and Luke’s mouth is dry.

“Make love to me?”

Stiles doesn’t need to ask twice.


	7. think it's cool

The sun is low in the winter sky when they settle, a mess of limbs and full of heavy breaths.  Stiles lays lax against Lucian’s chest, head settled at his collar, humming as lips press fleeting but delicate kisses to his flush face.  He’s sweaty and spent but more than content to lay in his lover’s arms despite the smell of sex clinging to them and the sheets they’re both tangled in.

Deft fingers dig just right into the tight knot of muscles between his shoulder blades, and Stiles groans at the painfully sweet pressure.  Chuckling, Lucian places another kiss to Stiles’ temple, pulling him impossibly closer.

While the two of them had been what were basically co-workers for nearly two years now—and intimately involved for the last six months—their sex life had never been as emotionally charged as this coupling had been.  There had been a reverence in the way Lucian had stripped him down to nothing but skin, and a keen kind of neediness about the both of them as they’d touched, kissed, fucked.  Stiles had been so pliant, so welcoming, and Lucian had found a home between his thighs like he had so many times before, but with their fingers laced, their hearts thudding in time, it had been so much more.  It had been a little bit like everything.

Carding his fingers through the short hair at the back of Stiles’ head, Lucian lets his claws scrape gently over Stiles’ scalp.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Stiles snorts, toes curling before he flexes his feet.  “Better.  Much, much better.”

“Is that the post-orgasmic endorphins speaking?  Or something else?”

Propping his chin on Lucian’s chest, Stiles’ expression goes wicked despite the softness in his eyes.  “Definitely the orgasm talking.”

“I see,” Lucian nods with a false solemnity.  “Perhaps I ought to remember that for future spats.  Give you an orgasm and you’re right as rian.”

With a fond roll of his eyes, Stiles props himself up onto an elbow in order to level a dry look down at Lucian.  “First of all, that would be cheating.  Second, I can’t believe you consider being the werewolf equivalent of the godfather and keeping _that_ huge red flag a secret from me nothing more than a _spat_.”

“You don’t deny it would work, though, do you?” Lucian lifts a slow brow.

Stiles swats at his shoulder with a halfhearted frown, even as Lucian catches his hand and brings it up to his mouth, lips gentle against the bridge of his knuckles.  Lips pursed, Stiles watches him, shivering as Lucian turns his hand over to place a kiss upon his open palm.

It’s a languid movement.  A slow, coaxing one; Lucian’s mouth is sweet against the heel of Stiles’ palm, then his wrist.  His teeth graze at Stiles’ pulse, and Stiles shudders from head to toe.  The arm around Stiles’ waist winds tighter, pulling him in, before he shifts and twists so that Stiles’ back is flush with the bed as he hovers over him.

Hair a dark cascade from over his shoulder, Lucian grins as Stiles’ pupils darken; widen.  He lays another kiss to the pale skin on the inside of Stiles’ elbow, and Stiles makes a hitching sound somewhere at the back of his throat.  His weight settles down over him, and Stiles’ eyes flutter as he revels in the press of their bodies, in the way Lucian easily settles in between the part of his thighs.  Lips press to the inside of his bicep, Lucian’s beard tickling the sensitive skin there in a way that makes Stiles squirm.

Stiles reaches for him—fingers a tangle in Lucian’s hair; firm at his shoulder—and Lucian goes as Stiles urges.  Their mouths meet, slanted and parted, tongues desperate for taste.  Lucian rocks down, the both of them already half hard, and Stiels’ moan hums between them.

“Cheater,” he whispers when Lucian moves to mouth along the delicate line of Stiles’ jaw.

Lucian’s laughter is a delightful thrum against his skin.  “Would you rather I stop?”

“ _Gods_ , no.” Stiles huffs, fingers curling tighter in Lucian’s hair.

Lucian doesn’t bother with a  reply.  He leans back up and catches Stiles’ mouth again, hands big against Stiles’ sides, fingers finding place at the ladder of his ribs.

Arching up, Stiles licks his way past Lucian’s teeth.  Lucian welcomes him with a throaty groan and a slow roll of his hips.  He slides his hands under stiles’ back, lifting until his spine is bowed up in a delicate arc.  It si a move that is familiar for the two of them, but it makes Stiles whine as it leaves him at the mercy of Lucian’s slow but steady roll, his own hips canted down and practically immobile in this position.  Lucian lets out a pleased rumble, looping an arm under the curve of Stiles’ lower back so that he can pet at Stiles’ hip with the other.

He moves with sinuous deliberation.  He draws out the friction of their bodies rutting.  Stiles drags his nails, blunt and angry, down over the back of Lucian’s shoulder and along his scalp.  It earns him a growl, which was definitely the goal, and Lucian breaks the lazy mingling of their lips to narrow his eyes down at Stiles.

“None of that, now.” He chides.  “Or do I have to tie you—“

Stiles’ phone chirps from somewhere on the floor by the foot of the bed.  They both go still as Super Mario Bros’ Underground Theme plays obnoxiously from the pocket of Stiles’ discarded jeans.

“Ignore it.”

_Denim, denim, denim._

Stiles winces.  “We’re supposed to have a meeting today.  I bailed on it yesterday.”

_Denim, denim, denim._

“Stiles—“

“If I don’t answer, they’ll come looking.”

 _Denim, denim, denim_.

“Luke.”

_Denim, deni—_

“Fine.”

Lucian releases him, flopping over to the side with a rather disgruntled sigh, brows furrowed.  Scrambling, Stiles half falls over the end of the bed, pert ass left bare in the air.

“Peter,” Stiles breathes, dangling over the foot of the mattress.  “What can I do for you?”

“ _Where are you_?”

Head tilted, Lucian’s eyes narrow at the demanding tone that filters over the line.  He reaches out, fingers curling round Stiles’ ankle in a manner that is possessive enough to garner attention.  Stiles glances over his shoulder at him, brows up, amusement like fire lighting up his dark eyes.  Lucian echoes the expression with a dry brow of his own.

Stiles snorts.  “That’s a private matter.  Why?”

Lucian leans forward, palm starting up a hairy calf.  Almost like a reward.

“ _Derek_ _wants to have the meeting pushed forward to now_.” Peter says, tone brisk.

“Color me surprised,” Stiles mutters.

“ _Scott said he didn’t know where you were_.”

Stiles’ smile is wide and pleased, though his tone is carefully amused.  “Still weird that you guys, like, _talk_ now.”

There is a heavy sigh.  “ _It’s like dealing with a sixteen year old._ ”

Stiles snorts again and Lucian squeezes at his calf.  “Lemme guess.  Usual place, usual people, usual lack of snack foods?”

“ _Derek’s loft.  Fifteen minutes_.” Peter grunts.

“Thirty minutes,” Stiles barters, laughing as Lucian reels him slowly in, pulling him closer over the sheets and ghosting his fingers up the inside of Stiles’ thigh.  “Make that forty.”

“ _Stiles--_ ”

Lucian leans down over him, kiss up the back of his leg, smile wicked as his fingers drift higher, and Stiles nearly chokes.  “Actually, just expect me to be a bit late.  Bye, Peter.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, hanging up and dropping the phone without another thought.

* * *

 

“We come baring pastries,” Erica announces as she strides into the loft, Isaac behind her and carefully balancing a box of assorted danishes and a number of bearclaws in one hand.  “No need to thank us.”

“You’re late,” Derek tells her, like she doesn’t already know, and she flashes a brilliant smile his way.

“There’s a very special blackberry glazed whatever just for you, boss man.”

She rolls her eyes, plopping onto the couch where Boyd is sitting feet propping onto the coffee table.  Peter makes a sound of protest from his place by Derek, leaning against the dining room table, that Erica ignores.

Isaac sets the box down.  “Where’s Stiles?” he asks.

“Also late,” Derek grunts as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks to Scott.

Scott just shrugs.

“Aren’t we discussing him and his fancy new bling?” Erica waggles her fingers.

“That was the idea,” Derek sighs.

Boyd leans into Erica’s side, voice low and smile lopsided.  “Peter called him.  He’s convinced Stiles is just playing hooky.”

Erica and Isaac both snort.

“He was pretty banged up,” Isaac says.  “I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Blame who for what?”

The entire loft becomes stagnant with tension as Stiles slides the heavy metal door open, a steady and powerful and _unknown_ force at his back.  They are all on their feet in an instant.  Only Scott, who arrived without Allison, offers a meek wave and a dopey smile at the pair from where he’s sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase in the corner.  Stiles returns it.

He smells like sex underneath the scent of hotel soap.  His hair sticks up in odd angles, like he’d tried to style it but someone kept dragging their fingers through it to muss it up.  He’s got a shirt that doesn’t quite fit on—too broad in the shoulders—and the amulet is back fastened carefully and pointedly around his neck.  He steps into the loft and the man with him follows easily, stepping beyond a dozen protective barriers, fingers laced loosely with Stiles’. 

The man is well-dressed—much more kept than Stiles is—and carries himself with an intimidating amount of confidence.  His hair, while long, is drawn back in a low tie, giving him a regal air that pairs well with the neat press of his clothes.  Chin canted up, he glances at all of the new faces with unquestionable authority.

Despite it, both Erica and Isaac let loose matching growls.  An amused brow lifts in reply.

“How quaint,” he says.

Stiles elbows him, lips pressed into a firm, thin line.  “I thought we talked about the posturing.”

“I’m just making an observation, love.”

“Stiles,” Derek croaks; he is very still next to Peter, whose eyes are burning blue.  “What--?”

“Oh!” Stiles’ entire face lights up.  “Luke, this is everyone.  Everybody, this is Lucian.”

* * *

 

By the time everyone is settled again, night has fallen, and the streetlights outside of the apartment complex fill the dark with an orange light that glints off of the rain that strikes and clings to the vast window on the far side of the loft.  The two couches by the door are piled with the young pack, Erica between Boyd and Isaac on one, Derek and Scott on the other.  Peter is hovering somewhere over by the archway to the training room, pacing back and forth, agitated like a trapped animal or a threatened wolf.  Derek is staring at Lucian, now that he isn’t on the defensive, and his jaw has taken a rather slack nature to it that—knowing who Lucian is—makes a sense that Stiles can’t fault him for.

As Stiles introduces Isaac, Erica, and Boyd they each nod their heads in a bemused kind of politeness.  They do not know who Lucian is, not even from rumor or legend the way that Derek does, so their wary manner is equally as understandable as the stars in Derek’s eyes and the tight line of Peter’s shoulders.  Stiles is sort of tickled by the whole thing.  His lover senses his amusement easily and squeezes at Stiles’ fingers with a fondness as Stiles gesture to Scott.

“Best friend, True Alpha, in that order.” Stiles says as Scott offers him a dopey smile.

“A pleasure, Alpha McCall.” Lucian offers a hand, like they are two men meeting rather than predators offering peace.  “I’ve heard a rather lot about you.”

Scott stands and takes the offer with even measure, shake firm but not aggressively so.  “I’m glad to see the two of you made up.”

“Your doing, I presume?” Lucian asks, dropping Scott’s hand after a moment, glancing over at Stiles with a smile.  “I do recall something about a rant involving a human moral compass.  Or something of the like.”

“He’s a goody-goody, but he’s my goody-goody.” Stiles bobs his head, grinning as Scott scowls at him.  “And Luke’s still in the dog house.  Good make-up sex does not trust issues fix.”

Isaac’s nose wrinkles even as Erica muffles a laugh behind one of her hands.

“Anyways,” Stiles rocks briefly on his heels.  “You met Thing One.  Thing Two is Derek.  Derek, say hi.”

“Alpha Hale.” Lucian greets with an elegant bow of his head.

Derek practically scrambles to his feet, head dipping further than Lucian has his own, and the sound of pleased surprise Lucian lets out has Stiles’ brows shooting up.  They part for the first time since walking into the loft, Lucian’s fingers untangling from the delicate knot with Stiles’ in order to offer his arm out.  Derek glances, furtive, between the outstretched palm and Lucian’s face before he reaches out to clasp Lucian’s forearm—who in turn clasps Derek’s.

Grinning, Lucian claps his free hand to Derek’s shoulder.  “I did not expect such a traditional greeting from someone so young, but it is certainly welcome.”

Derek very nearly blushes.

Arms crossed, Stiles gestures between the two of them with a lazy finger.  “You aren’t going to kiss, are you?”

Lucian breaks away, moving back to Stiles’ side, fingers coming up to ghost against the pendant around Stiles’ neck.  “The only lips that will touch mine are yours unless you wish it.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Isaac mumbles even as Stiles’ expression takes on something equally shocked as it is aroused, though Isaac grunts when Erica elbows him.

Boyd is the one that leans in, expression shrewd, elbows on his knees.  “You’re the one that gave Stiles the necklace.”

Lucian blinks over at him.  “Yes.”

Perking up, Isaac leans forward a bit too.  “Why’s everyone losing their mind over it, then?  Over you?”

The way his eyes dart first to Derek and then Peter does not go missed.  Erica reaches for the pastry box.

“I get that you’re an Alpha, but…” Isaac’s face pinches; he’s rank with confusion.

“You misunderstand,” Lucian says in a tone Stiles is familiar with hearing in the classroom.  “I’m not just any Alpha.  I’m _the_ Alpha.  The first of our kind.”

Erica chokes on a bearclaw.

* * *

 

The town is a small one.  A quiet one.

There is something in the forest that calls to them, but they irnore it.  Time is limited.  Sunrise will come, and if they are not careful, it will not end well. 

A sleek Mercedes rolls to a slow stop at a green traffic light.  Behind it, the street fills with the low growl of engines. 

“Where should we start?” Quinn asks from the seat next to him.

In the back seat, a blonde woman leans forward, arms draping over the back of the driver seat.  “I’m hungry, Deacon.”

“I think food is in order,” Deacon grins at her, teeth sharp in the rearview mirror.  “Q?”

“I could go for a bite,” he shrugs.

“Tell the others.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Quinn salutes with a gloved hand before rolling down the window and gesturing forward with two fingers.

The roar of motorbikes rumbles and then screams as a half dozen or so others zip by.  They are all clad in black, looking like shadows as they dart ahead down the street.  When the road allows it, they split apart into two smaller groups.  They will separate for now, but will find their way back when they need to.

If they don’t, Deacon will track them down and rip their chests open if only to get at their hearts.

“Where to?”

“Take the next right,” Quinn says, looking down at his phone.  “There’s a club called The Jungle and I wanna get _wild_.”

Sneering, Deacon funs forward, turning the steady but low bass humming over the radio up until the car’s windows rattle.  “Keep it in your pants, Quinn.”

Quinn cackles.  “No promises, man!”

In the backseat, the woman whoops and howls.  Mad and loud over the music.  Like a hyena ready to feast.

**Author's Note:**

> There might be other pairings as I move forward. I'll add tags as necessary.


End file.
